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Scarecrow Stories: Grasping Desire Part I
“Likely story, Feed Bag.” The Queen of Desire had decided to grace Flea Bag’s now-usual spot on the lobby couches. “Glenn was just an old man who faaaaar overstretched his bounds; he was no superhuman... superdeer?.. Super-King. Regardless, regale me of a story I’d actually be interested in.” “So be it, your Highness, but be careful what you behest of me.” The young flower was intimidated by the long-armed elderly man with the eyes that took up more than half his face. He kept telling her he meant no harm, but it only made it worse for her.The only thing she could do to keep calm was stare at the strange tattoos the man had. Words made of gold floated across his pasty skin were in a language she did not know. What did they mean? The man seemed far more interested in her, and wasn’t very forthcoming with information. “When can I leave this room?” the woman asked. “When we determine you are not a threat to the other residents here,” the man responded in his typical calm tone. “I’m not...I’m not a threat to you or anyone else!” She was visibly frustrated, but no one could blame her. She’d been held in that room for 3 long days of questioning. “I’ll be the judge of that. Now sit down and stay calm.” The young woman did as she was told. A single tear streamed down the vines on her face. She was used to being a servant and even more used to staying still. Her posture was rigid, her head aimed towards the only other person in the room like a sunflower towards daylight. She began to reach her hand up to fix a knot in her pixie-cut hair, but flinched and sat still instead. She was told to stay still, and she would. “Just a few more questions yet and I’ll let you go. Now tell me about your time in Arcadia. What do you remember about it? said the big-eyed man. The young flower hesitated again. They were painful memories, and the man with the long-arms who told her to call him Ollie if she was comfortable was acting like it was no more than trivia, words to fill out on an application. Plus his name wasn’t Ollie; it was King Oleander. It didn’t really matter what he called himself though, she didn’t like him either way. Her durance was her own, and she had no Desire to tell anyone about it, much less him. “Stop. This isn’t what I wanted at all. I wanted a story full of romance and adventure with a happily ever after at the end!” “Sorry, Rosebud, but I don’t know any stories like that.” “Rosebud? But that’s what my-” “I remember The Gardener. She was tall and colorful. The vines on her weren’t all green like mine- “I know that name...” “-they had greens and yellows and greys at different parts.” The young flower wasn’t going to stop talking for any rude interrupters, she’d told herself. He hadn’t told her not to, and The Gardener taught her that you don’t react to interrupters. She didn’t try to speak over him, though; she held her previous volume. Talking over him would be reacting, after all. Taught is too kind a word for what The Gardener did to me. She beat me until the only person I would ever listen to was her, she thought to herself while looking down at her feet. Feet were soooo much nicer than roots, although she still felt like she was planted. Escape from The Gardener landed her stuck between the same four walls for three days in a row after all. At least Oleander said he’d let her out. The Gardener never made such a promise. “She took me when I was a little girl. I don’t remember exactly how old I was, but I remember having a green sweatshirt my mother gave to me. It was too big for me at the time so it always felt like I was in the middle of a big hug!” The young flower smiled for the first time that day at her mention of the sweatshirt. That shirt was one of the memories she held onto all those years. It was the memory that she chased after as she ran through The Thorns. “Yes, yes, yes, back on topic, please.” Oleander seemed almost as frustrated as she felt, the blasted interrupter. She would have gotten on topic when she was done saying what she was saying! “The Gardener-” “Look, I don’t know where you learned this information, but I should. I can’t even fathom how you’re saying all this with such accuracy, but I don’t appreciate it!” Rose looked mad. She was giving her seldom-used Death-Glare to Flea Bag’s blindfold. It would take her another seven minutes to give up . Flea Bag may have been blind, but Queen Rose’s Death-Glare had overcome larger obstacles than that. Without a word, Flea Bag started again. “The Gardener would beat me. She had a short... what do you call them?.... It was like a whip but it was no longer than my forearm and it wasn’t as flexible... Anyway, she would hit me with it if I moved. I had to stand in whatever pose she wanted me to for that season, and she’d hit me if I ever moved a muscle. She’d use the whip-thing to pose me to begin with. She could have just shown me or moved me around with her hands, but she’d just hit whatever she wanted me to move and yell at me until I figured it out!” The young flower was crying. “I believe you’re describing some kind of riding crop,” added in Oleander. “Then the growing... The Gardener would dowse us with this bright green acid that would make us grow, but it was painful! I could feel every inch of me buckle and stretch, and when we would sprout extra flower bud or vines she’d have them harvested off of us by her Harvesters. They wielded these awful scythes. I could feel the vines, the buds! They were my arms, my extra heads just waiting to bloom! I don’t even know what she did with them after she’d take up our scraps..” “I never.... I never told old Oleander about the growing. It’s none of anyone’s business.” “But you wanted to, Interrupter. The thoughts of how you’d say it burned in your mind. I know the feeling more than you understand. Regardless, I do not speak fiction, so I would greatly appreciate it if you’d allow me to continue. Say the word and your story will end.” “Please keep telling the story, if only so that I can find out how much you really know.” “Very well. I apologize for my earlier rudeness. I spoke above my station. You are a Queen after all. Some stories get under my skin, s’all.” “I can’t imagine why, Feed Bag, What of this story could bother you?” “Please, your Highness, call me Fletcher, and the reason why it puts me on edge isThe Gardener and I have history as well.” “You, you couldn’t..” “Come now, my Queen. She is eternal. You couldn’t have thought you were the only one of her charges to ever escape? I want her dead more than anyone; just talking about her makes my blood boil!” Flea Bag clinched the fabric of his thrift store pants, wrinkling them. Rose hoped they fit their previous owner more snugly. The way he looked at her, she almost thought he was crying despite the lack of tears and eyes. For the first time Rose saw Flea Bag not as a Minister or a madman, but as a fellow changeling. Rose realized she often took the durances of others for granted, something she Desired to change. They were all the tortured seeking new life outside the prison, and they were all the survivors of pseudo-divine cruelty. No, his name wasn’t Flea Bag, it was Fletcher. “I-I had no idea!” Rose showed remorse for how she had treated the blind scarecrow. “It was foolish hope to think you would.” The former Harvester named Fletcher stood up, grabbed his scythe leaned against the armrest of his favorite couch, and left to talk about controlling his Wrath with Xeraphina. The Queen named Rose kindly told the children the story would have to continue another day, and then quietly went back into the courtroom. ''To be continued on Scarecrow Stories: Grasping Desire Part II '' Category:Fiction